Hostage of Dolour

HERE IS the essential musical accompaniment to this piece of writing below.  But if you is sensitive to swearing then don’t fucking click that there link.

Thank You to The Haters

Don’t hate me for what I might achieve
After hacking down your own striving legs.

Don’t hate me for the demons I might conquer
When your dark heart vaults only shadows.

Don’t hate me for those that love me truly
Before you see how your own beloved are belittled by it.

Don’t hate me for pulverising my own mocking fate
While you languish there lamenting a luck that deserted you.

Don’t ever cast your wretched gaze upon me
While your potential is not a pinnacle that you ever sought.

Because hatred is your carcinogen
And my days of mourning are
Long
Long
Long
Gone.

“Clone me, Doctor.”
“But Sarah…”
“Ah, no buts, clone me!”
“But Sarah, you died last April. You are a clone. Only— we made a tiny error…

Militant Bloody Bovines

“Sore udders, June?” Ermintrude asked.  “Slavery.  I’ll get the RSPCA.”

“You’ll have a gutful of steroids before the inspectors show.

Dirty John Famer’ll have you looking fat, healthy and radiant,

as though never a cruel fist was laid upon you.”

“What instead, Ermintrude?” “Instead, June, we strike.  Produce no milk!”

Beyond the milking room, John Farmer clenched, “Militant bloody bovines.

Make a fool of me?  They’ll starve.  Then we’ll see!”

For days he deprived them; severed the phone lines too.

Nighttime.  June, Ermintrude and the herd slunk into the croft.

Air, thick with murder yielded bovine feasting.  RSPCA?  No need.